Andrea Gibson Yarrow Lyrics

we packed our lives into the back of your truck
and drove two thousand miles
back to the only home you'd ever known

on the bayou you ate crawfish
and god how I wished I had never become a vegetarian
see here, whatever you came carrying
fell to the ground like creole soul rain drops
uptown you could watch the jazz notes float
from porch swings to sidewalks
of little girls playing jump rope and hopscotch
to old women skipping rocks
across the gulf of the mississippi
like heart beats they forgot they had
while mid-city trombones
wrote love poems in lonely men's ears

for a year we were gardeners
no andrea, yarrow doesn't grow here
imagine a womb full of water
plant like you would plant a daughter
name her iris, rose, magnolia, gardenia

you could hold the soil between your fingers
and smell gumbo and harmonicas
could smell po-boys and cathedrals on the same block
what do ya mean you don't talk to strangers?